


your body's a problem (they call me the problem solver)

by blackice



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Bottom Baze Malbus, Dirty Talk, Foreplay is in abundance, M/M, Married Banter included, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, appreciation of thicc baze malbus, lead up to Marathon Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-11-16 20:46:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11260683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackice/pseuds/blackice
Summary: “Chirrut,” said Baze, exasperated. He raised his voice when the deadbolt snicked shut. “Chirrut. I was in the middle of something.”“Something,” mocked Chirrut, spinning around and stalking forward, feeling a wild grin bloom on his face as he unerringly pressed Baze to step backwards. A soft, startled gasp from Baze was followed by the sound of him sitting down hard onto the mattress. “Something can wait.”





	your body's a problem (they call me the problem solver)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaboomslang](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaboomslang/gifts).



> Happy birthday, kaboomslang! Definitely more than a little late, but I hope you like it. ;v;
> 
> My first, but hopefully not only, entry into the spiritassassin fandom.
> 
> Thanks to lionmettled for (a) being the best beta-reader in the WORLD and (b) giving me inspiration for the title.

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Chirrut dragged Baze into their shared room, pulling him to the center of their room while he stayed to heave the heavy door shut. For the night Chirrut intended, Baze would be (hopefully) loud enough that the door and thick walls wouldn’t matter.

“Chirrut,” said Baze, exasperated. He raised his voice when the deadbolt snicked shut. “ _Chirrut_. I was in the middle of something.”

“Something,” mocked Chirrut, spinning around and stalking forward, feeling a wild grin bloom on his face as he unerringly pressed Baze to step backwards. A soft, startled gasp from Baze was followed by the sound of him sitting down hard onto the mattress. “Something can wait.”

He cocked his head, only partially listening to Baze’s bluster about the hydroponics garden (it’d be fine for a cycle—that’s what the automatic backup system was _for_ ), then Chirrut bent at the knee and swept up Baze’s ankles; Baze yelped and instinctively rolled away from him.

Didn’t matter. Chirrut stripped off his layers until he wore only his pants, climbed onto the bed, and scrambled to pin Baze down by the wrists, holding them by Baze’s ears. “You’ve been really tired,” said Chirrut to the back of his husband’s head. The curls of soft hair tickled the end of his nose.

“Then what are you on me for?” snapped Baze. Flustered, yet accepting his fate—Baze tested the iron grip, but he wasn’t struggling. Not really. Chirrut knew the feeling of Baze fighting to throw Chirrut off, the wild bucking and wrenching that came with the adrenaline rush of spars.

“Well,” amended Chirrut, “you’ve been… not sleeping.” He readjusted his knees; they were being spread far apart by the solid width of Baze’s waist, and that sent a lick of flame down to the pit of his stomach. But that wasn’t the goal of tonight. He told himself to focus.

Baze occasionally had bouts of insomnia. Sometimes it worked out by itself, with Baze quietly leaving their bed and exhausting his busied mind with simple tasks or a long watch at the north gate. Sometimes Chirrut had to interfere before his husband teetered into a class of young Disciples, who tended to misunderstand the intent of floppy Baze as being playful instead of dead tired.

“Your point, Chirrut,” Baze said.

“I think,” Chirrut returned, carefully picking out his words, “I have a way to help you sleep.”

Baze’s head fell with a loud thump and in a muffled voice groaned, “You’re not serious.” The twinge of irritation at Baze having figured out the master plan so quickly faded after a second; Chirrut wasn’t exactly being subtle about his intentions. Despite that, he tightened his grip on Baze’s wrists.

“Your husband is very serious,” said Chirrut loudly, “so keep these,” he squeezed the wrists before letting go, “here until I say so.” He waited for a form of agreement.

Silence lasted for a few heartbeats, and then Baze turned his head and sighed. “I can see the,” his voice faltered, morphing into a strange high-pitched squeak. “Chirrut. Is that—is that the whole box of oils?”

“Yes,” answered Chirrut, tone breezy with a confidence he did feel. Tonight was going to be a success. The truth of it settled in his bones. Tonight, Baze Malbus’s vaunted stamina would be steadily chipped away by Chirrut Îmwe’s equally vaunted obstinacy. Tonight, Baze Malbus would finally sleep easy, with no dreams to plague his already busy mind.

“… The _whole box_?”

Incredulity wore Chirrut’s patience thin. “Baze,” he soothed, “everything is planned out. Just relax and feel.” He released Baze’s wrists, but his hands hovered over them, like snakes waiting to see if their prey would twitch away or into their reach.

They stayed still, even as Baze’s mouth did not. “You think much of yourself,” he said, tensing as Chirrut slid further down, hands bracing at the small of Baze’s back. They explored, mapping and remapping the soft padding available to them.

He should’ve asked Baze to undress ahead of time—no. No, Chirrut could still work this to his advantage.

“You’re supposed to be supporting me,” complained Chirrut, searching for the knotted end of the sash cinching the tunic. He picked it loose, then prodded at Baze’s spine. “Prop yourself up for a moment,” he ordered. When Baze complied, Chirrut wasted no time in rucking up the tunic and shoving his husband chest-down to the bed again.

He ran his hands against bare skin, calluses sometimes scraping the smooth expanse. He located the knots of tension and ground the heel of his palm into one. The muffled groan rattled in Baze’s chest, reverberating into Chirrut’s ears and leaving his  hands faintly buzzing with the sensation.

“This isn’t even the fun part,” laughed Chirrut. “I haven’t even used the oil.”

When Baze remembered to respond, it came out in a rumble that went straight to Chirrut’s cock. “How long do you think this will take?” A short huff of air escaped him at the touch of teeth to the nape of his neck. “ _Chirrut_ , that’s too high—”

Chirrut pressed a sloppy kiss to the area instead, then reared back, groping for the lid of the chest of oils—gifts from their fellow Disciples, who hadn’t realized how badly their gag gifts were to backfire—and grabbing one. As he resettled himself in-between Baze’s legs rather than straddling them, he unscrewed the cap and sniffed it.

Triumphantly, Chirrut said while screwing the cap back on, “Ha! You’re lucky I picked the unscented one first. Unless you want to go around smelling of off-world fruits or woods?”

“You talk too much,” said Baze in a long-suffering fashion, one incongruous to the almost-debauched picture he must look like. “Either hurry up with your plan or—” He jolted at the sharp slap to his ass, breath hitching loudly as his lungs seized with the stifled urge to yelp.

Fingers slipped into the hem of Baze’s pants and underwear and dragged both articles of clothing down; Chirrut helped get them halfway, Baze wriggling them all the way off, kicking his pants and underwear off the bed with a swift movement of his foot. He didn’t use his hands for assistance—if Chirrut wasn’t so caught up unscrewing the vial of oil and imagining the velvet heat of Baze’s ass, he’d spare a laugh for the visual.

Baze Malbus, violently squirming his clothes off.

Chirrut placed one hand on the curve of a cheek and forgot his goals for a second, mind blanking at the give of muscle and fat cupped in a palm. He squeezed, Baze jumped and cursed. “I know, I know,” said Chirrut, “I should hurry up.” His fingers fanned out as a cursory warning, as an anchor for him as he carefully poured a puddle of oil over Baze’s entrance.

He moved faster now; the vial returned, a little hastily, to its position in the box. His fingers rubbed into the oil, slicking themselves and pressing the lubricant into the rim. Baze was loose enough that one finger slipped in without resistance; the second finger proved a bit more difficult to coax in.

Chirrut decided to leave it until he got Baze to beg. He curled his middle finger, searching.

Baze, absurdly, was trying to keep quiet. All the sounds Chirrut wished for—the shallow panting, the click of his throat as he swallowed, the hoarse punched-out moan Chirrut _knew_ existed whenever Baze felt a wave of pleasure too strong to choke down—were all being vocalized into the pillow.

Fortunately, Baze Malbus possessed an inability to ignore Chirrut himself. This weakness had been found and exploited by Chirrut since the tender age of eleven, who had no compunctions about talking a fellow initiate into various misadventures.

“Feels good?” Chirrut punctuated the rhetorical question with a calculated thrust, and he was rewarded not with a moan but the sudden grind of Baze’s hips into the mattress. “You feel good to me,” purred Chirrut. “So tight around only just one of my fingers, I don’t think I can get another in.” He zeroed in on the prostate and kept the pressure high.

There was a definite spasm; with his free hand, Chirrut reached up to check Baze’s hands. They were twisted into the sheets, though they hurriedly flattened at Chirrut’s touch.

Affection welled up in Chirrut, fondness and exasperation existing at the same time. He pulled back, completely, and patted Baze’s backside. “Turn over,” he said, “and watch out for me, I’m still between your knees.”

A beat of silence, and then, quite clearly not muffled by the pillow or bed, Baze echoed his early sentiment, “You’re not serious.” He continued before Chirrut could sweetly add the counterpart answer, “How long do you mean for this to go?”

Chirrut rolled his eyes. The effect was always lost on Baze. “Fine. _Fine_. You force me to do this,” he warned, and mentally braced himself. “Watch your legs,” he said.

He leaned down and wrapped his arms around Baze’s barrel of a chest, and he hauled him up in a swift motion. The sudden full-body contact had both of them gasping—Baze’s back was practically plastered against Chirrut’s chest, his legs flailing to right themselves, to put his feet flat on the bed. Chirrut hooked his heels against the inside of Baze’s thighs, forcing them to spread in spite of the heels digging into the bed.

Chirrut had to hide his whimper at the heavy, warm weight of Baze in his lap, and really, what better way to do that than to bite Baze’s shoulder. It did little to distract from the sensation of Baze (unintentionally?) grinding down on his cock.

“ _I_ forced you to do this?” demanded Baze, his voice ragged. “You’re the one dragging this out!”

“Clearly,” said Chirrut, talking over outraged sputtering, “I should have taken the edge off first. Pass the oil over, Baze.” He let Baze wrench a hand away from where it was digging into the soft padding at his ribs, and messily slick it with oil. “Careful,” he chided. Chirrut wrapped fingers around the hot length of Baze’s cock, flicked his wrist. “This is only round one, and you hate wastage.”

Baze kept silent, unnaturally so. Chirrut could only hear the occasional desperate gasp for air—which meant Baze was trying to be considerate of their neighbors, trying to count his breaths and rebalance his libido. Trying to stretch out the moment.

 _Absolutely not_. When the both of them had been training in zama-shiwo, trying to attain that perfect control of body, they had stumbled on the concept of edging. What had followed had been simultaneously the best and worst three weeks of Chirrut’s life—despite the fond memories it brought, Chirrut had no intention of reliving it.

His other hand left from toying with Baze’s nipples, though Chirrut couldn’t resist thumbing at one; he dug his fingers in Baze’s hair, the pads scraping the scalp, and tugged. Baze let his head tip back, pliant if stubbornly silent.

That was fine, because Chirrut had _words_. And Baze Malbus had never been able to ignore him, not completely.

“I meant it, Baze,” he murmured. “Round one. I’m going to make you come like this first. My hand on your cock. And I’ll use your come to open you back up again—collect it with my fingers and shove it back in you, stretch you wide for round two.”

Baze’s breath hitched. His knees tried to close, an instinctive reaction to being told Chirrut wanted him open. Key word: tried.

Chirrut continued, digging relentlessly for the right combination of words. “We’re no longer young men. It might take a while for you to come again. But,” and here he grinned, pressing the teeth of it against a shoulder blade. “But who here completed zama-shiwo?”

They had both trained in it, but Baze—he hadn’t washed out. Chirrut maintained this as fact, and made sure everyone knew Baze was entirely capable of finishing the trials for zama-shiwo. But harsh asceticism didn’t suit Baze, who, once encouraged to give, would do so until nothing of him remained.

And it wore on Chirrut, the steady progression of Baze’s body wearing away.

The masters understood, and had directed Baze’s attentions to the gardens and library. Chirrut had endured the trials and then happily failed the last, which demanded abstinence in all vices until the masters considered you one-hundred percent in control of your body.

Chirrut had at least a dozen vices, and of them, he was unwilling to sacrifice Baze.

The last trial was simply dressing on the top of a long list of accomplishments one could make while learning zama-shiwo. Chirrut had learned everything pertinent, in any case.

“The second round,” said Chirrut. “The second, you’ll come with my cock and nothing else. And while you’re too shaky with pleasure to form any words but ‘please’ and ‘Chirrut’, I’ll fuck you again. And you’ll come again, until you’re too exhausted to move when I have to clean you up.”

Chirrut yanked on Baze’s head again, and he strained his neck up until he felt the curve of Baze’s ear—red-hot with how furiously he blushed. He nipped the cartilage and traced a finger along the slit on the head of his cock.

Baze let out a broken sob and shook in the cage of Chirrut’s arms. “Chirrut,” he said in the tone of a swear, though the effect was lost in the stutter. He repeated it, over and over, until he spilled in the grip of Chirrut’s fist, and his whole body slumped.

Carefully, Chirrut slipped out from under Baze’s body, rearranging his floppy husband until Baze’s back was on the bed, legs falling open without a cue. Chirrut slipped two fingers back into his husband’s hole and hooked them onto the prostate with only a mild ‘hey’ as warning. He stuck his tongue out at the responding shouted expletive from Baze’s mouth. “You didn’t think I was talking a big game, did you?”

“I didn’t think you were serious,” gasped Baze, and Chirrut heard the clawing of nails against sheets when he fitted a third finger and fanned them. “Chirrut, _I_ was being serious. I’m busy tomorrow.”

“And you’ll go with marks of my love,” said Chirrut sunnily. “But only after you sleep in and catch up on your rest. The masters will understand.”

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**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Trey Songz's "Neighbors Know My Name."
> 
> and believe me, there are no walls thick enough to prevent Baze and Chirrut's neighbors from hearing Baze's wailing for the next few hours. :D


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